\BETH  BREWS1 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


WHEN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


WHEN 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


ELIZABETH  BREWSTER 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE   GORHAM    PRESS 
I9II 


Copyright  1911  by  Elizabeth  Brewstei 


AM  Rights  Reserved 


THE  GORHAM  PRESS  BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


PS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

When?  ................................  9 

A  November  Message   ...................  10 

Mizpah    ................................  ii 

Security   ................................  12 

The  First  Robin  ........................  13 

Sunset    .................................  14 

Almeda    ................................  15 

The  Rose  Jar  ...........................  16 

A  Christmas  Offering  ............  ........  17 

My  Ship  ............................  ...  18 

The  Song  of  the  Glen  Brook  ...............  19 

Through  Storm  .........................  23 

Milk-weed    ...........................  .  .  24 

The  Birthday  of  a  King  ...................  26 

Let  Thy  Peace  Rule  .....................  27 

Before  the  Springtime  ....................  28 

Greeting  ...............................  29 

Night  Fall  .............................  30 

A  Song  ................................  31 

Nasturtiums  ............................  32 

A  Christmas  Song  .......................  33 

7 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

As  Seen  from  My  Dutch  Chair 34 

Isabelle  42 

A  Night  Song 43 

New  Year's  Eve 44 

The  Shadow  of  a  Dream 45 

In  Darkness 46 

Class  Day 47 

The  Hanging  of  the  Curtains 50 

The  Pasque  Flower 55 

An  Easter  Song 56 

To  My  Mother  57 

United    58 

At  Forty 59 

The  Teacher's  Warrant 61 


WHEN? 

The  Spring  comes  softly,  up  among  the  hills, 
The   patient   earth   lies   waiting   'neath   the   snow; 
Then  comes  a  stir,  the  pulse  of  new  life  thrills, 
The  snaw  wreaths  fade,  warmly  the  south  winds 

blow, 

And  at  their  kiss  the  swamps  flush  rosy  red  ; 
O'er  all  the  trees,  upon  the  hillside  steep, 
A  tender  mist  of   living  green   is  spread, 
While  in  the  hollows  tiny  violets  peep. 
And,  with  a  note  as  sweet  as  water's  fall, 
A  blue  bird  tells  of  coming  joy  and  light; 
Gayly  the  robins  to  each  other  call, 
And  over  all,  the  sun  shines  warm  and  bright. 
And  then,  we  start,  and  cry,  "Winter  has  flown"! 
But  when  the  Spring  came  back,  is  still  to  us  un 
known. 


A  NOVEMBER  MESSAGE 

All  day  long,  o'er  field  and  mountain,  dull  gray 
clouds  came  drifting,  drifting, 

And  the  dead  leaves  floated  downward,  through  the 
still  air,  soft  and  slow, 

All  the  earth  lay  silent,  waiting,  in  the  hush  of  win 
ter's  coming, 

And  the  very  winds  were  quiet,  too  subdued  and  sad 
to  blow. 

Suddenly  a  blue-bird's  whistle  breaks  the   dreary, 

hopeless  silence, 
And  its  throbbing,  joyous  music  bears  this  message 

through  the  air, 
"He  who  gives  the  birds  their  portion,  has  the  whole 

earth  in  his  keeping, 
After  cold,  and  storm,  and  struggle,  He  will  send 

the  springtime  fair." 

So,  dear  heart,  though  thou  art  waiting,  in  the  chill 

of  pain's  dark  winter, 
And   the   dead   leaves  of  thy   hopes  come   floating 

downward,  thick  and  fast. 
Yet  thy  Father's  love  surrounds  thee,  and  His  hand 

will  surely  send  thee 
The  sweet  spring  of  joy  and  blessing,  when  thy  time 

of  storm  is  past. 


IO 


MIZPAH 

To  one,  most  dear  to  me, 

Towards  whom,  I  stretch  out  loving  eager  hands. 
Thou  soon  wilt  toss  upon  the  restless  sea, 
While  I  wait  here,  alone,  upon  the  sands. 
Tempests  may  sweep  across  the  heaving  deep, 
Thick  mists  across  my  lonely  path  may  creep. 
May  He,  who  governs  both  the  sea,  and  land, 
Still  guide  our  paths  by  His  all-loving  hand. 
God  watch   'twixt  thee  and  me, 
God   shelter  thee, 
At  sea. 


ii 


SECURITY 

I  saw  a  tiny  bird,  the  other  day, 

Flitting  from  bough  to  bough,  on  joyous  wing. 

For  Oh,  the  sun  was  bright,  and  earth  was  gay, 

And  so  it  seemed  he  could  not  choose  but  sing; 

While  all  his  little  heart,  in  sheer  delight, 

He  caroled  forth  in  music  sweet  and  true. 

"Alas"!    I    thought,    "How    soon    comes    darkling 

night, 

And  then,  what  can  this  helpless  creature  do?" 
When,  looking  through   the  branches  towards  the 

sky, 

I  saw  his  nest,  builded  secure  and  high. 
And  wouldst  thou  live  in  sunshine,  free  from  fear? 
Then  thou  must  build  in  Heaven  thy  home  and 

nest. 

Below,  are  pain,  and  doubt,  and  shadows  drear, 
But  there,  are  light,  and  strength,  and  perfect  rest. 


12 


THE  FIRST  ROBIN 

All  day  the  heavy  clouds  hung  dark  and  low, 
Sullenly  brooding  over  field  and  hill; 
And  ever  and  anon  a  flake  of  snow 
Came  drifting  slowly  downward  cold  and  still. 
Slowly   the   daylight    faded    from   the   sight, 
When  suddenly  the  dull  clouds  in  the  west 
Parted,  and  through  the  rift  a  sunbeam  bright 
Shot,  gladdening  all  things  with  its  radiance  blest. 
And   straightway    through    the   still   air   loud   and 

clear, 

Roused  by  the  brightness,  rang  a  robin's  song. 
Gone  is  the  pall  of  stillness  dense  and  drear, 
Broken  the  yoke  of  death  and  darkness  strong. 
Rouse  thee,  O  Earth,  and  turn  thee  to  the  light; 
Conquered  is  winter's  reign,  and  ended  is  thy  night. 


SUNSET 

The  hush  of  Autumn   rests  upon  the  hills, 
Dreamy  and  warm  the  mellow  sunbeams  lie; 
A  golden  vapor  every  valley  fills, 
And  soft  white  clouds  drift  through  the  deep  blue 

sky. 

Gay  glowing  maples  all  the  woods  adorn ; 
While  crimson  leaves  strew  every  quiet  path. 
In  the  brown  fields  stand  shocks  of  rustling  corn, 
And  in  their  shelter  golden  pumpkins  laugh. 

Now  long  deep  shadows  cross  the  meadow  fair, 
And  the  great  sun  drops  down  behind  the  hill. 
A  hint  of  coming  frost  is  in  the  air, 
And  all  the  whispering  winds  are  hushed  and  still. 
The  evening  star  burns  in  the  glowing  west, 
And  all  the  world  is  wrapped  in  quiet  rest. 


ALMEDA 

Softly  the  rosy  dawn,  with  gentle  hand, 
Open,  the  golden  gate  of  morn  doth  swing, 
And  far  and  wide  her  flashing  sunbeams  fling, 
As  on  the  shining  threshold  she  doth  stand. 
As  at  her  glad  approach,  o'er  sky  and  land, 
A  flush  of  pleasure  spreads ;  birds  wake  and  sing, 
Rousing  sweet  echoes  with  their  caroling, 
And  flower  bells  ring,  by  gentle  breezes  fanned. 
Even  so,  my  love,  when  thou  dost  come  to  me, 
I  blush,  to  feel  my  own  unworthiness, 
Yet  blush  again,  with  pleasure,  when  I  see 
Thou  hast  such  power,  to  gladden,  and  to  bless. 
For  thy  sweet  presence,   like  to  sunshine  fair, 
Bringeth  bright  flowers  of  joy,   and  music  every 
where. 


THE  ROSE  JAR 

Some  one  has  said  "Sweet  things  are  born  to  die". 
We  trust  that  sweetest  things  shall  last  alway. 
See  how  these  leaves,  though  brown  and  dried  they 

lie, 
Still  hold  the  perfume  of  a  summer's  day. 


16 


A  CHRISTMAS  OFFERING 

"Glory  to  God",  the  angels  sing, 
Sweetly  the  lingering  praises  ring 
Throughout  the  echoing  sky. 
And  shall   not  we,  more  blest  than  they, 
With  angel  choirs,  our  tribute  pay 
Unto  our  God,  most  high? 

Unmarred  by  sin,  the  angels'  songs; 

To  us,  a  sadder  note  belongs, 

Deepened  with  pain  and  strife: 

Yet,  through  earth's  mirror,  faint  and  dim, 

We  too,  would  offer  praise  to  Him 

Who   died   to   bring   us   life. 

Earth's  gifts  belong  to  Thee  alone. 
We  have  no  treasure  of  our  own 
To  lay  before  Thy  shrine. 
But,  of  our  poverty,  we  bring 
Our  wills,  a  Christmas  offering, 
Take  them,  and  make  them  Thine. 


MY   SHIP 

"When  my  ship  comes  in"  I  said,  and  smiled, 
As  I  looked  far  out  o'er  the  sunny  sea, 
For  all  my  dreams  since  a  little  child, 
And  all  my  hopes  and  visions  wild, 

Were  meant  by  those  few  short  words  to  me. 

I  i  I  .  :  ' 

And  surely,  there  never  sailed  away 
A  fairer  craft,  from  the  harbor  old. 
The  waves  round  her  prow  seemed  to  dance  and 

play, 

And  the  tender  light  of  the  rising  day 
Made  her  white  sails  fairer  than  burnished  gold. 

The  beautiful  ship,  in  the  harbor  old! 
Well  might  the  sun  on  her  white  sails  shine. 
She  will  come  back  laden  with  riches  and  gold, 
With  hopes  fulfilled,  and  with  wealth  untold, 
And  this  treasure  is  all  for  me,  and  mine. 

My  ship!     My  ship!     But  tempests  rise, 

And  the  dancing  waves  can  dash  and  roar, 

And  storm-clouds  cover  the  angry  skies, 

While  we  sweep  the  broad  ocean  with  straining  eyes, 

But  what  can  we  do,  who  wait  on  the  shore? 

Yet  my  ship  came  in,  came  in  at  last, 
Drifting  back  from  the  cruel,  cruel  sea, 
With  upturned  hull,  and  broken  mast, 
And  my  dreams  and  visions  all  are  past; 
For  'twas  only  a  wreck,  came  back  to  me. 


18 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  GLEN  BROOK 
I 

From  forest  depths  of  moss  and  fern  I  trickle, 

And  softly  creep 
Beneath   great   rocks  and  overhanging  branches, 

In  shadow  deep. 
And  fringing  blossoms  tremble  at  my  coming, 

With  sudden  joy, 
Stooping  to  greet  me,  then  in  haste  withdrawing, 

Timid  and  coy. 
And  over  pebbly  beds  I  dance  and  ripple, 

While,   high  above, 
Among  the  boughs,  the  tiny  wood-birds  carol 

Of  home,  and  love, 
And  summer  days  of  full  and  ripe  completeness, 

Whose  coming  seems 
To  bring  us  promise  of  the  glad  fulfillment 

Of  all  our  dreams. 

On,  on,  I  dance,  through  flickering  shade  and  sun 
shine 

Now  dark,  now  bright, 
And  fairy  dragon-flies  skim  swiftly  o'er  me, 

WTith  wings  of  light, 
And  bright-eyed  squirrels  stoop  to  drink  my  waters, 

Merry  and  fleet, 
And  all  the  glad  wood-creatures  seem  to  echo. 

O,  life  is  sweet. 
In  the  glad  summer  days  of  joy  and  sunshine, 

O,  life  is  sweet, 

Is  sweet. 


II 


Then  deeper  grows  my  path,  and  all  about  me 

Great  rocks  are  strewn. 

While  through  the  trees  strange  winds  come  down 
the  mountain, 

With  fitful  moan. 
And  here,  beneath  the  sheltering  birch  and  chestnuts, 

The  young  folks  meet, 
Scaling  the  slippery  rocks,  and  narrow  ledges, 

With  eager  feet. 
And  merry  laughter  breaks  the  woodland  stillness, 

While  shout  and  song 
Echo  among  the  deep  paths  of  the  forest, 

Silent  so  long. 
And  here,  beneath  the  softly  whispering  branches. 

Shy  lovers  meet, 
To  find  together  perfect  understanding, 

Tender  and  sweet. 
In  the  glad  summer  days  of  joy  and  sunshine, 

O,   love  is  sweet, 

Is  sweet. 

Ill 

And  now  dark  hemlock  tress  .close  round  my  path 
way 

While,  grim  and  wild, 
Like  broken  fragments  of  the  earth's  foundations, 

Great  rocks  are  piled. 
And  swifter  now,  I  hasten  on,  and  downward, 

Nor  can  I  stay. 
The    mighty   water-spirit,    strong,    resistless, 

Calls  me  away. 

Now   swift  and   white,   my  seething,   boiling  wa 
ters 
Sweep  past  the  shore. 

20 


And  louder,  louder,  comes  the  awful  summons, 

With  sullen  roar. 
And  all  the  timid  wood-flowers  on  nay  margin 

Are  dashed  with  spray. 
And  all  the  shadowy  air  about  me  trembles. 

Away!     Away! 
Now  seething,  dashing,  boiling,  leaping,  struggling, 

A  sudden  spring, 
And,  down  the  sheer  cliff's  side,  with  fierce  abandon, 

My  life  I  fling. 
Foam,  spray,  wild  echoes,   deep  reverberations, 

A  mighty  rush. 
And  then,  above  the  black,  mysterious  waters, 

An  awful  hush. 
Sullen,  despairing  silence,  dismal  darkness, 

And  is  this  meet? 
In  the  still  depths,  away  from  joy  and  sunshine, 

Can  life  be  sweet, 

Be  sweet? 

IV 

Beyond     the     depths,     stretch     broad     and     fertile 
meadows. 

While,  shining  low, 
The  setting  sun  lights  up  my  quiet  waters, 

With  rosy  glow. 

And,  through  the  fields,  the  children  hasten  home 
ward, 

In   happy   throng. 
While  one  late  robin  scatters  through  the  stillness 

His  evensong. 
Now,  in  the  west,  the  evening  star  gleams  softly, 

Steady  and  bright, 
Symbol  of  glad  new  hope,  the  gift  of  Heaven, 

To  cheer  our  night. 


21 


Silence  and  peace  brood  o'er  the  darkening  meadows 

Full  and  complete. 
And,  after  night,  we  trust  the  morning  cometh. 

And  trust  is  sweet. 

After  the  passion  and  the  sullen  sorrow, 
New  hope,   God-given  hope 
Is  sweet, 
Is  sweet. 


22 


THROUGH  STORM 

O,  my  heart,  my  heart  was  heavy, 
With  the  hoping  and  the  waiting, 
As  the  great  sun  settled  slowly 
Down  into  the  troubled  sea. 
And  long  trails  of  mist  came  crowding 
O'er  the  weary  waste  of  waters, 
And  the  brooding  night  sank  darkly, 
With  no  light  of  hope  for  me. 

Then,  far  out  amidst  the  darkness, 
Gleamed  the  white  foam,  rising,  falling. 
And  the  tide  came  sweeping  landward, 
With  a  dull,  increasing  roar. 
And  the  tide  of  my  deep  sorrow 
Rose,  and  tossed  me  in  its  billows, 
As,  with  restless  force,  the  breakers 
Toss  the  sea-weed  on  the  shore. 

Suddenly,  the  sweeping  tempest 
Broke,  with  wild,  resistless  fury. 
Blackly  yawned  the  awful  billows 
In  the  sudden  lightning's  glare. 
Blacker  still,  again  the  darkness 
Closed  upon  the  fearful  conflict, 
And  the  winds  rushed  madly  onward, 
With  the  frenzy  of  despair. 

But  the  dreadful  night  is  over, 

With  its  fierce,  unearthly  battles, 

And  the  morning  sunlight  dances 

On  the  shining,  quiet  sea. 

Joyously  the  birds  are  singing, 

And  a  solemn  peace  enfolds  me. 

For  I  know,  through  storm  and  tempest, 

God  will  care  for  you  and  me. 

23 


MILK-WEED 

Come  with  me,  dear,  for  the  shadows  are  falling, 
Night  glides  o'er  the  mountain,  stately  and  slow, 
Through  the  dewLladen  meadows,  the  crickets  are 

calling, 
And  high  mid  the  tree-tops,  the  soft  night-winds 

blow. 
Come  with  me,  dear. 

The  last  gleams  of  day,  in  the  west,  now,  are  dying, 
And,  in  the  deep  sky,  the  golden  stars  glow. 
One  lingering  bird  to  its  warm  nest  is  flying, 
And  the  hum  of  the  night-moth  sounds  dreamy  and 

low. 
Come  with  me,  dear. 

I  think  that  the  yellow-haired  daisies  are  dreaming, 
For  I  see  their  bright  heads  softly  nod,  to  and  fro. 
But  the  milk-weed   still  wakes,   for  its  pale  stars 

are  gleaming. 
As  if  with  some  thought  more  than  mortals  can 

know. 
Come  with  me,  dear. 

Then  come  with  me,  dear,  that  just  we  two,  to 
gether, 

May  live  over  those  bright  days,  now  long,  long  ago, 

When  we  strayed,  hand  in  hand,  in  the  sweet  sum 
mer  weather, 

Out  over  the  hill,  in  the  sunset's  red  glow. 
Come  with  me,  dear. 

Ah,  dear,  the  summer  has  vanished  forever. 
Through    the    cold,    leafless    branches,    the    wind 
whistles  shrill. 


To  the  old  nests,  the  robins  will  come  again,  never. 
The  meadows  are  barren,  the  air  dim  and  chill. 

But,  though  daisies  are  gone,  and  black  clouds  are 

flying, 

The  milk-weed  now  sends  you  its  message  of  cheer, 
"The   flower   dies   for   the  seed,   joy   comes,   after 

sighing, 
And,  after  death's  night,  Heaven's  morning  shines, 

clear." 
And  our  home  is  there,  dear. 


THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A  KING 

The  birthday  of  a  King.     O,  wondrous  sight! 
The  King  of  kings  to  earth  has  now  descended. 
Lo,  in  a  manger  lies  the  Lord  of  light. 
Behold,  what  majesty  and  meekness  blended. 

Ah,  see  this  lowly  stable,  cold  and  bare. 
See,  on  the  straw,  this  helpless  infant  sleeping. 
And  then  behold  the  nights,  the  days  of  care, 
The  coming  years  for  this  young  child  are  keeping. 

Behold  Him,  poor,  that  we  might  riches  find, 
A  man  of  grief,  that  He  might  bring  us  gladness; 
Partaking  of  the  nature  of  mankind, 
Bearing  our  sickness,  sharing  all  our  sadness. 

Behold,  O  wondrous  love — O,  matchless  grace — 
Behold,  He  gives  His  life,  for  man's  salvation. 
He  bears  sin's  punishment,  in  sinners'  place, 
That  we  might  live  to  God,  His  new  creation. 

The  birthday  of  a  King.     Kneel  and  adore, 
With  reverent  feet,  approach  this  stable  lowly, 
Come,  seek  the  infant  King,  crowned  evermore 
Thy   King,    thy    Righteousness,    thy    Saviour   holy. 


26 


LET  THY  PEACE  RULE 

Let  Thy  peace  rule. 

Weary  with  fruitless  struggle, 
Broken,  defeated  in  the  strife  with  wrong, 
Restless,   dissatisfied,   in   darkness  groping. 
With  will  still  unsubdued,  and  passions  strong, 
To  Thee,  within  whose  presence  tempests  cease, 

I  come  for  peace. 

Let  Thy  peace  rule. 

Amidst  vague  shadows  struggling, 
Bewildered  with  the  mystery  of  life, 
Fearful  and  tempted,  stumbling  oft,  and  falling, 
Knowing  myself  unequal  to  the  strife, 
I  come  to  Thee,  who  strength  and  pity  art. 

Rule  Thou  my  heart. 

Let  Thy  peace  rule. 

Quiet  this  restless  turmoil, 
And  let  a  solemn  hush  my  spirit  fill. 
That,  in  the  stillness,  I  may  hear  Thee  speaking, 
And,  listening,  learn  to  know  and  love  Thy  will. 
O,  Prince  of  peace,  enter,  and  claim  Thine  own. 

Rule  me,  alone. 


BEFORE  THE  SPRINGTIME 

And  so  you  are  weary  to-day,  dear  heart, 
And  you  think  the  world  gone  awry, 

And  it  seems  that  the  sun  will  never  shine, 
Nor  the  clouds  ever  roll   from  the  sky? 

You  think  that  the  spring  will  never  come  back, 

That  the  birds  will  never  sing, 
That  sorrow  must  always  be  your  lot, 

Your  life  be  a  useless  thing? 

I  walked  o'er  the  hills  to-day,  dear  heart, 
And  the  trees  stood  gaunt  and  bare, 

But  down  on  the  ground  'mid  the  withered  leaves 
I  found  one  violet  fair. 

I  saw  on  the  boughs  many  empty  nests, 

Yet — clear,  and  sweet,  and  strong 
Filled  with  new  life,  and  hope,  and  trust, 

I  heard  a  blue-bird's  song. 

God  sends  spring  back  to  the  earth,  dear  heart, 

Shall  we  cling  to  the  winter  sad? 
He  would  fill  our  lives  with  such  beautiful  things, 

Let  us  take  them,  and  be  glad. 

I  know  the  longing  and  pain,  dear  heart, 

And  yet,  I  think,  ere  long, 
If  we  trust  our  Heavenly  Father's  love, 

Our  grief  shall  be  turned  to  a  song. 

Hope  on  through  the  winter  of  sorrow  and  trial, 
Take  courage,  the  clouds  will  break ; 

God  will  send  us  joy,  in  his  own  good  time, 
For  he  knoweth  the  way  that  we  take. 

28 


GREETING 

I  know  not  what  the  year  may  hold 

Of   joy   or  pain, 
If  you  will  walk  'neath  sunny  skies, 

Or  through  the  rain; 
But  this  I  ask,  that  He  may  walk 

Near,   as  your  Guide, 
Who  came  for  us,  a  little  child 

At  Christmas  tide. 
And   ever  may   His  love  and   peace 

With  you  abide. 


NIGHT  FALL 

The  drifting  east  winds  sweep  the  meadows  wide, 
Sending  long  shivering  ripples  through  the  grass, 
Tossing  the  maple  boughs  from  side  to  side, 
And  scattering  showers  of  dead  leaves  as  they  pass. 
A  clambering  vine,  loosed  from  its  former  stay, 
Sways  helplessly,  at  each  recurring  blast, 
While  one  fair  rose,  the  pride  of  yesterday, 
Now  drops  its  crimson  petals  thick  and  fast. 
The  driving  mists  blot  out  the  distant  hill, 
And  shadows  gather  thickly  on  the  plain, 
Night  closes  round  us,  dreary,  dark  and  chill. 
Then  draw  the  curtain,  Love,  shut  out  the  rain, 
And  sit  beside  me  in  the  fire's  red  light, 
Thyself  our  home's  true  sunshine  warm  and  bright. 


30 


A  SONG 

My  lady  fair,   awake, 

The  rosy  fingered  morning 
Opens  her  eastern  gate, 

And  flashing  sunbeams  o'er  the  earth  doth  fling. 
The  dewy  meadows  sparkle  in  the  light, 
The  fragile  wind-flowers  ope  their  blossoms  white, 

And  everywhere  sweet  birds  are  caroling. 
My  love,  my  lady,  wake. 
Awake. 

Awake. 

My  lady  fair,  good  night. 

Above  the  purple  mountains 
The  moon   is  rising  bright, 

And  faint,  sweet  breath  of  lilies  fills  the  air. 
Soft  night  winds  blow  thy  dreamy  lullaby, 
While  steadfastly,  from  out  the  quiet  sky, 

The  stars  are  watching  thee  with  loving  care. 
Good  night,  my  love, 

Good   night. 

Good  night. 


NASTURTIUMS 

Summer  is  past,  the  Spring's  fair  flowers  are  dead, 

The  garden  paths  are  desolate  and  bare, 
The  rose  is  gone,  the  merry  birds  are  fled, 

And  dried  leaves  flutter  through  the  chilly  air. 
Yet  down  beneath  this  gray  wall's  sheltering  care 

A  sudden  blaze  of  color  meets  the  eye, 
The  brave  nasturtium  blossoms  bright  and  fair, 

Here  tell  of  summer  'neath  October's  sky. 
Dear  gallant  flowers,  what  though  the  winter  drear 

Soon  will  destroy  you  with  its  freezing  blast? 
While  life  remains  you  still  will  tell  of  cheer, 

And  bravely  show  your  colors  to  the  last. 
And  when  the  winter's  snows  heap  vale  and  hill, 

True  hearts  will  keep  your  courage  living  still. 


A  CHRISTMAS  SONG 

The  stars  are  all  out  in  the  still  arch  of  heaven, 

And  the  bright  silver  moon  like  a  ship  on  the  sea, 
Drops  down  to  her  moorings  behind  the  blue  moun 
tain, 

But  my  heart  is  awake,  Love,  and  thinking  of 
thee. 

The  snow-covered  hills  glitter  white  in  the  moon 
light, 
And   the  frost  crystals  sparkle  on  bramble  and 

tree ; 

The  shadows  lie  black  on  the  ice-covered  river, 
And  my  heart,  Love,  is  waking  and  thinking  of 
thee. 

All  the  earth  lies  at  rest  in  a  wonderful  quiet, 

As  if  this  glad  night,  noise  and  turmoil  must  flee ; 
"Peace,  good  will,  now  must  reign,"  all  nature  seems 

telling  ; 

And  in  this  sweet  hush,  Love,  my  heart  turns  to 
thee. 

Shine  bright,  wondrous  stars,  and  make  music  in 

heaven, 

Float  on,  silver  moon,  o'er  thy  unruffled  sea; 
May  the  peace  and  the  joy  of  this  glad  time  enwrap 

thee, 

Is  the  prayer  which   my  heart  makes   to-night, 
Love,  for  thee. 


33 


AS  SEEN  FROM  MY  DUTCH  CHAIR 
A  Noonday  Dream 

In  the  days  of  song  and  story, 
When  the  world  enjoyed  its  morning, 
And  men  thought  as  little  children, 
To  the  earth  a  gift  was  given; 
'Twas  a  strangely-woven  carpet. 
Only  those  with  thought  untainted, 
Those  with  courage  never  shaken, 
Those  whose  truth  had  never  wavered, 
Could   behold   its  soft,  dim  colors, 
Could   enjoy   its  power  supernal. 
For,  to  whom  this  carpet  floated, 
Like  a  cloud  dropped  from  the  heavens, 
Came  the  power  to  drift  off  with  it, 
To  whatever  clime  his  fancy, 
Or  his  heart,  or  longing,  drew  him. 

But   the  world   grew  old   and   dusty. 

And  men's  thoughts  and  truth  were  tarnished, 

And   their  courage  grew  bravado. 

So  the  mystic  wishing-carpet 

Was  drawn  back  again  to  cloudland, 

Till  the  day,  (if  that  day  cometh), 

When,  renewed  in  truth  and  courage, 

Men  again  are  little  children. 

Yet,   although   the   magic  carpet 
Has  departed  from  our  dwellings, 
Still  its  shadow  lingers  near  us; 
And  some  call   this  shadow,   Fancy. 
But  a  few,  with  keener  instinct, 
Say,   "It  is  Hope's  mantle  passing." 


34 


Not  alone  to  men  of  courage, 

Nay,  nor  even  to  the  spotless, 

Comes  this  symbol  of  past  glory, 

Comes  this  promise  of  the  future. 

As  the  substance  came  to  virtue, 

So  the  shadow,  virtue  wanting, 

Comes  to  those  who  strive  for  virtue, 

Or  to  those  who,  weary-hearted, 

Need  some  cheer  to  help  them  upward, 

O'er  life's   hot  and   dusty  highway. 

Such  an  one,  footsore  and  weary, 
Toiled   I,   through   the  burning  noonday. 
When,  behold,  a  little  arbor, 
And,  within  it,  swaying  softly, 
An  illusive,  mystic  shadow. 

Eagerly,  I  sought  the  arbor, 
Sank  to  rest,  beneath  this  shadow. 
From  the  azure  vault  of  heaven, 
Blazed  the  August  sun,  in  fury. 
All  the  sky  was  hot  and  fiery, 
All  the  shimmering  air  was  burning, 
All  the  earth  was  scorched  and  gasping, 
Every  leaf  hung  parched  and  wilted, 
E'en  the  little  birds  were  silent, 
In  a  heat  too  great  for  singing. 
From  the  still  depths  of  my  refuge, 
Gazed  I  on  a  world  of  summer. 

Then  to  me  there  came  a  marvel. 
All  my  hill-begirdled  landscape 
Changed  to  a  low,  flat-spread  country. 
Here,  among  its  fertile  meadows, 
Stood  a  gray  and  curious  windmill, 
With  broad  sails  slow,  slowly  turning. 
Here,  again,  a  red-roofed  cottage. 

35 


High  among  whose  clustering  chimneys, 

A  long-legged  stork  had  nested. 

Green  and  pleasant  was  this  landscape, 

Rich  with  deep  and  fertile  meadows, 

Gay  with  brightly-blooming  gardens, 

Trim  and  tidy,  telling  always 

Of  a  people,  labor-loving. 

Soft  and  damp,  the  summer  breezes 

Blew  across  this  pleasant  country. 

And,  upon  them,  faint,  illusive, 

Like  a  strain  of  fitful  music, 

Came  the  deep  voice  of  the  ocean, 

For  this  land  is  sea-begirdled. 

Eagerly   I   scanned   the   distant 

Line,  where  sky  and  earth  commingled, 

Till  I  saw  a  misty  shadow, 

The  gray  line  of  the  wide  ocean. 

Suddenly,  without  my  effort, 
Stood  I,  close  beside  the  water. 
Gray  the  sky  above  me  brooded. 
Gray  the  waters,  tossed  and  troubled, 
Rose  and  fell,  with  ceaseless  moaning. 
Sorrow  seemed  upon  the  ocean. 

Then  again,  a  changing  picture. 
Blue,  the  azure  dome  of  heaven. 
Blue,  the  gayly-dancing  water, 
While  the  breakers,  combing,  curling, 
Ran   and   frolicked  o'er  the  shingle, 
And  the  spray,  now 'white  and  snowy, 
Radiant,  now,  with   rainbow  colors, 
Touched  my  face  with  soft  caresses; 
And  the  keen,  salt  breath  of  ocean 
Seemed  to  give  new  life  and  vigor. 


36 


But  is  this  the  breath  of  ocean? 
No,  the  scent  of  roses  greets  me. 
I  am  in  a  sweet  old  garden, 
I  am  in  my  own  dear  country. 
And  that  garden,  O,  that  garden! 
Here,  its  paths  are  box-bebordered, 
Here,  are  hemmed  with  currant  bushes, 
Here,  with  fragrant  berry-brambles. 
How  its  shining  cornstalks  rustle, 
How  its  fruits  grow  rich  and  mellow, 
And  its  lovely  flowers  run  riot. 
Johnny- jump-ups  crowd  the  cornstalks, 
Pansies  grow  among  the  bean-poles, 
Dahlias  climb  the  wide  grape-arbors, 
Sweet-peas,  butterfles  of  plant-land, 
Twist  among  the  great  tomatoes. 
And  the  roses,  white  and  crimson, 
Pink  and  yellow,  reign  triumphant. 

Up  and  down  this  sunny  garden, 
Strays  a  little  maiden,  singing. 
Now  she  fills  her  hands  with  blossoms, 
Mignonette,  and  pinks,  and  asters. 
Now,  a  bed  of  fragrant  wild  thyme 
Makes  her  pause  to  look  and  wonder 
Why  the  bees,  there,  honey  sipping, 
Are  so  very,  very  tiny, 
While,  among  the  bright  phlox,  yonder, 
Giant  bees  prepare  for  winter. 
Now  she  seeks  the  old  grape-arbor, 
Where,  all  warm  with  autumn  sunshine, 
The  first  purple  grapes  are  turning. 
Now,  a  tiny  breeze,  upspringing 
Whispers  to  the  little  maiden, 
"Look  down,  underneath  the  pear-tree. 
I  was  playing  there,  this  morning." 


37 


And  the  little  feet  run  lightly 
Out  across  the  garden  meadow, 
And  the  bright  eyes  spy,  triumphant, 
On  the  ground,  her  proper  booty, 
The  great  pears,  full  ripe  and  mellow. 

O,  that  dearest  of  all  gardens! 

O,  thrice  happy  little  maiden! 

For  not  lonely  in  her  straying. 

In  the  garden,  busy,  toiling, 

There  is  one,  to  her  its  center, 

There  is  one,  her  life's  bright  sunshine. 

Now,   to  him  she  comes,   with   question, 

"May  I  have  the  pears  the  wind  dropped !" 

"May  I  pick  the  red  rose,  yonder?" 

Or  she  comes  with  happy  wonder 

At  some  miracle  of  nature. 

"See,-— a  violet  in  the  autumn." 

Or  a  clover-leaf,  four-petalled. 

O,  thrice  happy  little  maiden! 

She  is  always  sure  of  welcome, 

Sure  of  sympathy  untiring, 

Sure  of  interest  in  each  beauty, 

Fresh  and  eager,  joyous,  always. 

For  the  one  who  makes  her  sunshine 
Has,  in  age,  the  heart  of  childhood, 
Has  a  love,  deep,  strong,  and  tender, 
Learned,  not  from  earth's  changeful  teaching, 
But  from  Him  who  love  created. 

i 

O,  thrice  happy  little  maiden! 
Pain  must  surely  one  day  find  thee, 
Shadows  gather  round  thy  pathway, 
Yet  no  darkest  cloud  can  rob  thee 
Of  these  early  days  of  sunshine. 

38 


Empty  stands  the  sweet  old  garden. 
All  the  dew-filled  air  is  fragrant, 
But  the  blossoms,  once  so  brilliant, 
Now  gleam  dimly  in  the  twilight. 
Silent  stands  the  sweet  old  garden, 
Save  where  some  shrill-voiced  cricket, 
Or  a  katy-did  makes  outcry, 
"Summer  days  are  past  and  over." 
All  the  air  is  still  to  listen 
For  the  frost's  near  step,  approaching. 

Dark  and  empty  is  the  garden. 
But,  although  the  sun  has  vanished, 
All  the  west  still  throbs  and  pulses 
With  a  flood  of  golden  glory, 
As  if,  to  some  better  country, 
Where  night's  shadows  never  gather, 
A  great  door  had  been  flung  open. 

Wonderful,  that  path  of  splendor! 

Wistfully  I  gaze  into  it, 

Till  I  almost  see,  before  me, 

That  fair  land,  whose  happy  inmate 

Knows  no  change,  nor  pain,  nor  sorrow, 

Needs  no  sun  nor  moon  to  light  him. 

And  I  know  that  one  beloved, 

Who  was  here  our  hearts'  best  sunshine, 

Walks  within  that  happy  country, 

As  a  son,  at  home  forever, 

Joying  in  his  Father's  presence. 

What  new  beauty  is  upon  him, 

What  new  power  or  grace,  I  know  not. 

Only  this; — his  eyes  are  feasted 

On  the  King  in  all  His  beauty, 

And  so  gazing,  so  adoring, 

He  shall  grow  to  be  most  like  Him. 


39 


Still  I  gaze  into  the  sunset 
Till  I  almost  think  there  greets  me 
A  faint  strain  of  sweetest  music, 
From  that  happy,  holy  country. 

Nay,  my  ears  are  dull  of  hearing, 

And  my  eyes,  earth-dimmed  and  darkened, 

Cannot  bear  the  heavenly  glory. 

So  the  door  to  that  fair  country 

Softly  closes,  as  I  linger. 

Fitfully  the  night-wind  passes, 
And  the  darkness  closes  round  me. 
But,  upon  the  night's  still  darkness, 
Break   the   stars,   heaven-lighted   tapers. 

Then  I  hear  a  voice,  low-calling, 
"Come  to  me,  and  follow  closely. 
I  have  trod  this  way  before  thee. 
And  the  path  to  this  fair  country 
Lies  right  onward,  up  the  highway. 
Follow  me.     It  is  not,  surely, 
That  thy  feet  shall  never  stumble; 
But  my  feet  have  walked,  unerring. 
'Tis  not  that  thou  shalt  accomplish 
Wondrous  progress,  on  this  journey; 
But  I  took  this  journey  for  thee. 
It  is  not  that  thou  can'st  conquer 
All  the  evils  that  may  meet  thee; 
But  I  conquered  evil  for  thee. 
"It  is  not  that  thou  art   holy, 
Fit  to  enter  in  that  country; 
But  my  holiness  is  perfect. 

Pain  must  surely  be  thy  portion, 
Weariness  and  tribulation 


Cannot  always  pass  thy  dwelling. 
Toil  and  heat  and  dust  await  thee, 
Yea,  and  last,  a  cold,  dark  river. 
But  I  passed  this  way  before  thee, 
Knew  the  toil,  the  heat,  the  sorrow, 
Yea, — and  since  none  else  could   do  it, 
I,  the  Shepherd,  true  and  loving, 
Tasted   death   for  all  my  people, 
Died  to  pay  their  debt, — sin's  wages. 
Rose,   that  they  might  live  forever. 
Come  to  me,  and  follow,  closely." 

Hush,  O  heart  of  mine,  and  listen! 

Lo,  a  change!     Still  I  am  seated 
In  my  shadow-haunted  arbor. 
Fiercely  glows  the  August  sunshine. 
All  the  shimmering  air  is  burning. 
All  the  earth  is  hot  and  dusty. 

But,  enough,  I  must  press  onward 
Up  the  highway, — up,  so  be  it. 
This  is  not  my  place  of  resting; 
I,  a  pilgrim,  may  but  tarry 
For  a  night,  in  this,  my  shelter. 
Up,  my  soul,  and  hasten  onward! 
But,  through  all  the  dust  of  travel, 
Through  the  shadow,  or  the  sunshine, 
Listen,  still,  forever  listen 
For  that  voice  of  wondrous  sweetness, 
Of   authority,    unchanging, 
"I  have  trod  this  way  before  thee. 
In  my  footsteps  follow,  trusting." 


ISABELLE 

Her  eyes  are  like  the  deep  blue  of  the  sea, 
When  the  swift  tide  sweeps  in  from  far  away, 
And  all  the  flashing  white-caps  dance  and  play, 
Tossed  by  the  strong,  pure  sea-winds  wild  and  free. 

Her  hair  has  caught  the  morning's  first  pale  gold, 
Before  the  blaze  of  sunrise  fills  the  sky, 
While  dew  drops  glitter  on  the  uplands  high, 
And,  down  below,  the  shadows  linger,  cold. 

And,  when  you  meet  with  her,  you  feel,  once  more, 
The  call  of  childhood's  pleasures,  far  away, 
You  catch  the  spicy  scent  of  mint  and  bay, 
And  sea-weeds  drying  on  the  rocky  shore. 

You  see  a  woman,  generous  and  sincere, 
Steadfast  in  purpose,  earnest  for  the  right, 
Tender  and  strong  and  true,  cheery  and  bright, 
Forgetting  self,  for  those  she  holds  most  dear. 

O,  friend,  whose  friendship  strengthens  my  frail  life, 
May  God,  our  Father,  bless  you  from  above, 
Grant  you  your  heart's  desire,  give  you  His  love, 
And  guide  you  safely  through  life's  care  and  strife. 
My  Isabelle. 


A  NIGHT  SONG 

Night  closes  slowly  round  the  solemn  hills, 
Quenching  the  crimson  glory  of  the  west. 
A  tremulous  twilight  every  valley  fills, 
And  the  last  bird-song  dies  away  to  rest. 

High  in  the  deepening  sky  with  steady  sweep 
The  burning  stars  in  stately  splendor  pass, 
While  down   among  the  leaves  the  fire-flies  peep, 
And  wave  their  fairy  lanterns  through  the  grass. 

The  whispering  winds  move  softly  to  and  fro, 
Telling  strange  secrets  to  the  listening  trees; 
Mysterious  shadows  swiftly  come  and  go, 
And  vague  sweet  music  floats  upon  the  breeze. 

Do  life's  mysteries  perplex  thee? 

Do  its  doubts  and  questions  vex  thee? 

Is  thy  pathway  dark  and  dreary? 

Has  thy  heart  grown  faint  and  weary? 

Yet  rest. 
God  leadeth  best;  rest,  rest. 

When  the  shades  of  night  would  hide  thee, 
God  sends  out  his  stars  to  guide  thee, 
When  no  single  ray  can  cheer  thee 
Then  the  Lord,  Himself,  draws  near  thee, 

Therefore  rest. 
God  leadeth  best;  rest,  rest. 


43 


NEW  YEAR'S   EVE 

Merrily,  merrily  falls  the  snow, 
Dancing  down,  from  the  cold  gray  sky. 
Can  it  be  that  the  fairy  people  white 
Are  coming  down  to  the  earth  to-night, 
To  bid  the  year  "Good-bye"  ? 
Merrily,  merrily  falls  the  snow. 

Softly,  softly  falls  the  snow, 

And  darkness  creeps  over  earth  and  sky. 

The  wind  o'er  the  hilltops  sighs  sad  and  low, 

And  amidst  the  darkness  and  deepening  snow, 

The  year  doth  die. 

Softly,  softly  falls  the  snow. 

Solemn  and  still  o'er  the  glistening  snow, 
The  sun  is  rising  clear  and  bright. 
With  storm  and  darkness  the  year  hath  gone. 
May  the  untried  year,  now  at  its  dawn, 
Be  pure  and  white,  as  new  fallen  snow. 


44 


THE  SHADOW  OF  A  DREAM 

Lost,  lost,  a  shadow,  'twixt  the  dark  and  day! 
O  ye,  who  hurry  by  on  eager  feet, 
Saw  you  a  vision  wonderful  and  sweet 
Flitting  before  you?     Tell  me,  tell  me  pray. 

Only  a  shadow?     That  I  cannot  say; 
The  shadow  pf  a  dream,  a  vision  bright, 
An  airy  castle  gleaming  in  hope's  light, 
An   unreality,   more   real   than   day. 

And,  through  this  dim  strange  radiance,  soft  and 

still, 

Moved  stately  forms,  on  loving  service  bent, 
With  eyes  keen-seeing,  wise  true  hearts  intent, 
Hands  strong  to  minister  to  human  ill. 

Lost,  lost,  a  shadow !     Gone  the  phantom  light, 
Hope's  airy  towers  are  blotted  from  the  sky. 
Perhaps  there  was  no  vision,  only  I, 
Myself  a  shadow,  wander  through  the  night. 

Yet  men  have  said,  there  is  a  region  high 
Where  all  the  shattered  dreams,  lost  to  us  here, 
Find  their  true  prototypes,  substantial,  clear, 
A  land  of  glad  realities,  that  cannot  die. 

And  in  that  land  dwells  One,  whose  pitying  love 
Once  brought  Him  down,  to  walk  our  shadowy  way, 
To  win  for  us  a  pathway  to  the  day, 
And  guide  our  feet  to  that  sure  land  above. 

Lost,  lost,  a  shadow!     Lord  of  that  bright  land, 
Look  down  upon  us  struggling  in  the  night, 
Help  us,  in  darkness,  to  believe  in  light, 
And  bring  us  home  at  last,  led  by  thy  hand 
Beyond  all  shadow. 

45 


IN  DARKNESS 

Traveler,  haste,  the  day  is  flying, 
In  the  glimmering  west,  low-lying, 
The  last  streaks  of  red  are  dying. 

Swiftly  scuds  the  storm-rack  dreary, 

While,  amid  its  billows  eerie, 

The  pale  moon  gleams  wan  and  weary. 

Traveler,    haste,    thy   strength    is   failing, 
Louder  now  the  winds  come  wailing, 

Nearer  yet  the  clouds  are  trailing. 

******** 

Up  the  East  the  dawn  is  creeping, 
Back  the  heavy  mists  are  sweeping, 
What  dread  secrets  are  they  keeping? 

Deep,  O  traveler,  is  thy  sleeping, 
Sleep,  but  not  on  earth  thy  waking. 

And  one  woman's,  heart  is  breaking. 


46 


CLASS  DAY 

For  one  more  class,  the  parting  time  had  come. 
The  four  bright,  busy,  merry  college  years, 
So  long,  when  planned  for,  but  so  short,  when  past, 
Have  come,  and  gone.     The  men,  who,  four  years 

since, 

As  boys,  and  strangers  saw  each  other  first, 
Now  say,  "Farewell",  firm  friends  and  serious  men. 
But  ere  the  parting,  came  one  day  of  pause, 
When  each  sought  to  forget  life's  graver  side, 
And,  living  o'er  again  old  pranks  and  scrapes, 
In  fun,  and  joke,  to  be  a  boy  again. 

And  with  these  boys  their  many  friends  collect. 
Grave  gray-haired  men  were  there,  with  thoughtful 

eyes 

Watching  those  boyish  men,  or  manly  boys, 
Each  hoping  that  his  boy,  in  future  years, 
Might  make  the  world  a  better,  braver  place, 
And  finish  out  that  which  his  own  life  lacked. 
Mothers  were  there,  thinking,  with  mother's  pride, 
"I'm  sure  not  one  is  equal  to  my  son. 
Some    may    be    handsomer — perhaps — but   none   so 

good". 

And  many  younger  brothers,  too,  were  there, 

By  some  unspoken  law,  gathered  in  knots, 

To  roar  at  each  uncomprehended  joke, 

And  then  to  whisper,  in  triumphant  tones, 

"If  we  can't  beat  that,  in  a  year  or  two"! 

And   maidens   bloomed    that   day   like   sweet   June 

flowers, 

In  fluttering  robes  of  pink,  and  blue,  and  white, 
And  dainty  bonnets,  and  illusive  hats, 
Till,  by  comparison,  gardens  seemed  wastes, 
And  pinks,  and  fragrant  roses,  merely  weeds, 
47 


While  they  themselves,  in  sweet  unconsciousness 
Ne'er  thought  upon  their  garments,  but  instead, 
Each  mused, — but  stay,  who  so  presumptuous 
To  dare  break  in  upon  a  maiden's  dream? 

So  fans  and  ribbons  waved,  and  jokes  were  cracked, 
And  music  gave  its  magic  to  the  time. 
And  radiant  June  sent  forth  her  warmest  air, 
And  brightest  sunshine,  for  the  festival. 
And  on  the  campus,  every  blade  of  grass 
Laughed  in  the  light,  while  the  great  tulip-trees, 
With  generous  hand,  scattered  their  orange  bloom. 
And,  through  the  stately  elms,  the  rustling  breeze 
Passed,  with  mysterious  whispers,  up  and  down. 
The  air  was  full  of  rare  perfume  and  light, 
The  very  birds,  singing  in  sweeter  tones, 
While,  high  against  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky, 
Rose  up  the  ivied  walls  of  Old  Nassau. 
And,   ever  and   anon,   from  the   gray  tower, 
Deep  and  distinct,  the  bell  gave  out  the  hour. 

Suddenly,  high  above  the  people's  heads, 
Down  from  the  clear  blue  sky,  on  golden  wing, 
A  butterfly  drifts  softly,  turns  and  floats 
Backward  and  forward  in  the  brilliant  light, 
Then  poises  lightly,  high  above  the  crowd. 
And,  as  they  watch  the  stranger,  low,  yet  clear, 

Like  long-forgotten  music,   comes  a  voice. 

• 

"Partings  must  be,  for  all  things  have  their  time, 
And  change,  and  death,  shall  be  the  law  of  life, 
Till  this  life  end  in  changeless  life  above. 
But,   lest  mankind,   weighed   down  by   thought  of 

death, 

Should  miss,  through  dull  despair,  his  life's  best  aim. 
Or  else  should  say,  with  foolish  hardihood, 
'Life  is  so  short  it  recks  not  how  'tis  spent, 
48 


Since  e'en  fame's  shining  laurels  fade  and  die,' 
And  so  should  waste  this  priceless  gift,  his  life, 
Lest  this  should  be,  Hope  has  been  sent  to  man 
To  cheer,  and  comfort  him,  and   nerve  his  hand 
For  noble  work,  and  chivalrous  emprise. 
And  hand  in  hand  with  Hope,  more  strong  than 

she, 

Faith  has  been  sent,  a  sure  and  changeless  link 
To  join  man's  little  weakness  with  God's  strength. 

And  so,  to-day,  as  these  new-armed  knights 

Go  forth,   into  the  battlefield   of  life, 

I,   golden  winged   Hope,   float  softly  down, 

To  spur  and  guide  each  champion  on  his  way, 

Nor  is  Faith  distant,  though  you  see  her  not; 

And  he  must  win,  who  fights  with  Faith  and  Hope". 

So  spake  the  voice,  then  ceasing  all  was  still, 
Save  for  a  dreamy  rustle  of  the  elms, 
And  the  soft  whisper  of  the  summer  wind. 
The  golden  sun  sank  lower  in  the  west, 
And  cool,  deep  shadows  lay  across  the  grass. 
The  dews  began  to  fall,  and,  at  their  touch, 
The  scent  of  roses  filled  the  warm  June  air. 
The  arching  sky  grew  high  and  wonderful. 
Then  deep  and  clear  through  the  still  evening  air 
The  bell  from  Old  Nassau  gave  out  the  hour. 


49 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CURTAINS 

Not  long  since,  if  I  remember, 
In  a  quaint  and  quiet  village, 
Dwelt  a  good  and  reverend  parson, 
One  who  spent  his  life  in  service, 
Toiled  and  labored  for  his  people, 
Yet  had  small  remuneration 
For  his  love  and  his  devotion, 
Save  the  great  reward  that's  promised 
In  the  future  to  the  faithful. 
Such  an  one  was  he  as  Peter, 
Fighting  lust  and  sin's  corruption; 
One  like   St.   John,   the  beloved, 
Working  for  his  "little  children". 
One  like  Paul,  the  "chief  apostle", 
Fighting  the  good  fight  victorious. 
Yet,  unlike  the  great  apostle, 
He  had  chosen  him  a  helpmeet 
For  the  "present  dispensation", 
One  whose  loving  help  and  service 
Lighted  much  his  heavy  labors. 
One  like  unto  Ruth,  the  faithful, 
Or  like  Mary,  grave  and  lowly, 
Whose  adornment,  a  meek  spirit, 
Showed  the  good  part  she  had  chosen. 
So  they  lived  and  helped  each  other, 
And  instructed  their  three  children. 
First  among  their  olive  branches 
Came  a  daughter,  staid  and  sober, 
And  a  very  Dorcas  was  she, 
Darning  stockings,  making  garments, 
Always  working  for  her  family, 
Or  increasing  her  own  learning. 
Next  they  had  another  daughter, 
Not  a  Dorcas,  but  a  Martha. 

50 


One  who  did  less  than  her  sister 
Yet  worked  harder  to  reach  after 
What  she  grasped  not. 
Last  of  all  unto  the  parson 
A  young  son  and  heir  was  given, 
A  young  Lemuel,  who  from  childhood 
Heard  the  words  his  mother  taught  him, 
Or  like  him  whose  mother  Eunice, 
Aided  by  her  sainted  mother, 
Taught  her  son  the  truest  knowledge. 
So  his  very  earliest  learning 
Was  the  truth  his  mother  taught  him. 
Thus  the  parson  and  his  family 
Dwelt  in  that  old  country  village. 
Peaceful  was  the  quiet  parsonage 
With  its  great  green  yard  around  it. 
On  the  west  the  ground  sloped  gently 
To  a  thick  high  hedge  of  lilacs. 
On  the  east  the  church  and  chapel 
Stood  inviting  all  to  enter. 
On  the  north  great  firs  and  pine  trees 
Stood,  the  guardians  of  the  parsonage 
From   the  furious  storms  of  winter, 
While  tall  maples  in  among  them 
Were  unto  this  quiet  homestead 
For  a  beauty  and  adornment. 
Theirs  the  first  pale  green  of  Springtime, 
And  the  rich  dark  hue  of  Summer; 
And  when  the  first  frosts  of  Autumn 
Touched  their  waiting  leaves,  they  scattered 
Floods  of  gold  and  crimson  glory, 
To  enrich  all  who  came  near  them. 
Southward  from  the  happy  parsonage 
Stretched  a  meadow  and  a  garden. 
In  the  meadow  early  daisies 
Came  to  gladden  first  the  summer, 
And  then,  later  and  more  gladsome, 
51 


Like  condensed  and  bottled  sunshine, 
Golden  rod  the  joyous  nodded; 
And  grave  asters,  wistful,  tender, 
Waved,  "Bid  farewell  unto  Summer, 
But  hope  on,  through  the  long  winter, 
For  another  summer  coming". 
And  the  garden,  O!  that  garden, 
With  its  hyacinths  and  tulips, 
And  its  violets  and  pansies, 
And  its  dear  old  pinks  that  take  you 
To  the  first  days  of  your  childhood. 
While  all  kinds  and  sorts  of  roses 
Make  you  almost  dance  with  gladness 
To  know  that  there  is  such  beauty. 
And  inside  the  peaceful  parsonage 
First  the  bright  and  cheery  kitchen 
Stand  before  us.     Let  us  enter — . 
Two  east  windows  let  in  sunshine, 
Seven  doors  let  in  the  children. 
It  might  not  be  quite  convenient, 
But  no  one  would  dare  to  whisper 
Such  a  thing  above  a  whisper. 
Next  the  dining-room,  small,  narrow, 
Yet  "A  good  room",  each  one  called  it. 
Then  the  study,  O,  that  study! 
Here  the  parson  wrote  his  sermons, 
Here  the  children,  when  their  parents 
Went  to  make  their  pastoral  visits, 
Worked  and  read  and  played  together, 
But  most  cosy  was  this  study 
In  the  cold  nights  of  the  winter, 
When,  outside,  the  winds  were  howling, 
And  the  heavy  snow-flakes  falling. 
Then,   with   shades   dropped   o'er  the   windows, 
Would  the  parson  and  his  family 
Gather  round  the  fire,  made  brighter 
By  the  blowing  of  the  north  wind, 
52 


And  rejoice  that  they  were  sheltered. 
One  last   room  had   this  good  parsonage, 
Cool  and  roomy,  large  and  pleasant, 
One  in  which  old  father  Jacob 
Might  have  sheltered  his  twelve  children, 
And   still   walked,    himself,   with    Rachel. 
This  room  was  the  summer  parlor, 
One  too  cool  for  winter  using, 
But  a  joy  in  June  or  August. 
Here,  long  afternoons,  when  all  things 
Drooped  beneath  the  heats  of  summer, 
On  still  evenings,  when  the  moonlight 
Streamed  in  through  the  eastern  window, 
Sat  the  parson  with  his  family. 
If  the  furniture  was  rusty 
In  the  pleasant  summer  parlor, 
Was  it  not  the  same,  the  parson 
Purchased  for  his  bride's  home-coming, 
Five   and    twenty   years   beforehand? 
Two  good  sofas,  both  of  horse-hair, 
And  one  arm-chair  of  the  same  stuff, 
Two  small  tables,  a  low  rocker, 
And  two  large  well-filled  book  shelves. 
What  more  needed  this  good  parson  ? 
One  thing  more,  a  small  melodeon, 
A  gift  to  our  Ruth  in  childhood, 
Made  this  summer  parlor  royal. 
Still,  in  every  pot  of  ointment 
Sticks  a  fly,  the  proverb  tells  us. 
Paul  and  Ruth  were  not  excepted. 
Theirs  was  in  the  summer  parlor, 
'Twas  the  shades  over  the  windows. 
"O,  it  is  not"  cried  the  mother 
"That  they  are  so  very  homely, 
But  their  red  and  bloody  color 
Makes  me  think  of  war's  commotions. 
Let  us  change  them;  they  bring  discord 
53 


To  my  very  Sunday's  quiet". 

So  'twas  settled,  and  the  parson, 

With  his  wife  to  help  him  choose  them, 

Started  to  the  town  for  curtains. 

"Not  too  gay  must  be  these  hangings", 

Cried  the  good  wife  to  her  husband, 

"Lest  with  worldly  thoughts  and  feelings 

We  may  lead  our  people  wrongly". 

"No",  replied  the  worthy  parson, 

"Yet  all  good  things  have  been  given 

Unto  us  for  our  enjoyment. 

Choose   we   something  grave   and   cheerful, 

That  shall  rest  our  eyes  and  others". 

So    'twas    done.       They    bought    the    curtains. 

They  were  made  by  the  good  mother, 

Helped  by  Dorcas  and  by  Martha. 

Then  Saint  Paul  and  young  Timotheus 

Hung  the  comforts  in  their  places. 

Now  they  hang  there.     "Yet",  cried   Martha, 

"Moths  will  soon  eat  up  the  curtains. 

Let  me  make  their  hanging  lasting". 

So  she  manufactured  verses 
Telling  of  the  busy  hanging. 
Where  the  verses  are  I  know  not. 
They  were  lost  the  day  she  made  them. 


54 


THE  PASQUE  FLOWER 

A  tiny  bell, — but  hush!  bend  down  thine  ear, 
Dost  catch  its  golden  music,  softly  ringing? 
Far,  far  away  it  sounds,  yet  sweet  and  clear, 
The  obligate  to  spring's  chorus  singing. 

The  tiny  bell  must  droop,  its  brief  day  past. 
Yet,  if  thine  ear  hath  heard  but  once  its  measure, 
Forever  in  thy  heart  its  tone  will  last, 
The  spring's  sad,  joyous  song,  a  living  treasure. 


55 


AN  EASTER  SONG 

The  silent  winter  is  dreary  and  sad. 

And  the  patient  earth  waits  long. 
Where  is  the  spring,  with  its  promise  glad? 

O,  the  power  of  death  is  strong! 
Strong  is  evil,  and  strong  is  pain. 
Must  pain  and  evil  always  reign  ? 

Through  the  frozen  earth  springs  a  tiny  blade. 

The  voiceless  silence  is  past. 
Life  against  death  hath  its  powers  arrayed. 

And  Easter  has  come  at  last. 
The  lent  lilies  ring  their  golden  bells, 
And  this  is  the  message  their  music  tells. 

Free!  free!  free! 

The  strong  is  o'erthrown  by  a  stronger  than   he. 
Evil  is  vanquished,  strong  death  is  slain. 
He  who  died  now  liveth,  forever  to  reign. 
O,  rescued  earth,  your  praises  bring! 
O,  happy  bells,  most  sweetly  ring! 

Free !    free !    free ! 
Let  us,  too,  sing. 
Our  glorious  King, 
Hath  conquered  for  you  and  me. 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

The  skies  hang  gray  and  chilly,  and  the  wintry  winds 

still  blow, 
While   over  the   hills  and   moorlands,   drift  softly 

stray  flakes  of  snow. 

Yet    in   spite    of   leafless   branches,    and    meadows 

brown  and  bare, 
There's  a  hint  of  spring  on  hill-slopes,  and  a  hope 

of  spring  in  the  air. 

There  are  furrows  upon  thy  cheek,  Love,  and  lines 

on  thy  broad  brow  fair, 
And  the  snows  of  many  winters  lie  soft  'mid  thy 

golden   hair. 

Yet,  over  thy  peaceful  face,  Love,  and  deep  in  thy 

clear,  calm  eyes, 
Shines  a  light  that  is  brighter  and  sweeter  than  e'er 

shone  in  springtime  skies. 

For  thy  face  is  set  towards  the  dawn-land,  where 

is  known  no  winter's  decay, 
And  thy  path  shall  grow  brighter  and  brighter,  till 

it  endeth  in  perfect  day. 


57 


UNITED 

We  are  not  far  from  those  we  love, 

At  Christmas  tide, 
Though  we  walk  here  'mid  shades  of  earth, 

They,  with  the  glorified. 

For  He,  who  came,  a  little  child,  to  bring  us  life. 
Walks  near  to  us  who  struggle  here  amid  earth's 

strife, 
And  near  to  them  who  now  rejoice,  all  suffering 

past. 
And,  kept  by  Him,  we  all  shall  meet,  safe  home  at 

last. 


AT  FORTY 

It  is  not  the  girl  of  twenty, 

Nor  the  girl  of  twenty-nine, 
No,  nor  yet  the  girl  of  thirty, 

Whose  charms  most  brightly  shine. 
But  'tis  she  who  keeps  her  freshness, 

Hope,  and  faith,  and  temper  fair, 
When  the  snows  of  forty  winters 

Show  their  traces  on  her  hair. 

She  may  not  be  a  beauty; 

Maids  at  forty  seldom  are. 
You  can't  call  her  brow  a  lily, 

Nor  her  eye  a  gleaming  star. 
But,  if  spring-time  tints  have  vanished, 

And  her  brow  with  thought  is  lined, 
'Tis  the  sculptor,  Time's  own  witness, 

To  a  spirit,  strong  and  kind. 

She  is  not  as  good  at  tennis 

As — well,   twenty  years  ago. 
And  the  young  folk,  though  they  love  her, 

Find  her  stories  "rather  slow." 
And  she  knows  it;  yet,  serenely, 

With  a  courage  high  and  grand, 
Steadfast   treads   the  path   appointed, 

Rules  her  own  lone  spirit-land. 

In  her  lips,  the  law  of  kindness 

Ever  holds  supreme  control. 
Truth  her  inmost  thought  has  lighted, 

Faith  and  hope  have  filled  her  soul. 
And,  "not  slothful,"  still,  in  action, 

Be  the  deed  so  great  or  small, 
Every  task  she  makes  a  pleasure, 

Eager-hearted  service,  all. 
59 


Does  she  dream,  as  other  women, 

Of  the  woman's  kingdom  sweet? 
Ay,  she  dreams,  for,  without  dreaming, 

Any  life  is  incomplete. 
And  she  sees,  away  in  cloudland, — 

Ah!  but  this  I  cannot  show, 
For  a  woman's  inmost  fancies, 

Stranger  eyes  may  never  know. 

But   she   comes   again,   serenely, 

To  this  world  of  every  day, 
And  is  glad  of  work,  or  pleasure, 

Song  of  birds,  or  children's  play. 
So  we  need  not  give  her  pity, 

For  her  spring-time,  far  away, 
She  is  facing  now  the  sunrise, 

Rising  to  the  perfect  day. 


60 


THE  TEACHER'S  WARRANT 

"Let  him  that  heareth  say,  Come" 

How  can  I  guide  these  little  eager  feet, 

When  mine  so  oft  have  wandered  from  Thy  way  ? 
How  can  I  dare  Thy  wondrous  truth  repeat 

With  lips  so  stained  by  sin,  from  day  to  day? 
Yet,  Lord,  I  heard  Thy  loving  voice  say  "Come" ; 

And,  having  heard,  how  can  I  choose  but  tell 
Of  Him  whose  tender  heart  holds  ample  room 

For  me,  and  for  these  little  ones  I  love  so  well  ? 
I  have  no  wisdom.     Thine  is  all  complete, 

And  Thou  dost  bid  the  needy  come  to  thee. 
I  come,  and  bring  these  children  to  Thy  feet. 

Receive  and  bless  them,  Lord.    Teach  them — and 
me. 


61 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


FormLO — 15m-10,'48(B1039)444 


Brews ter  - 
3503         \Vhen. 
B7594w 


A    000919858     1 


PS 

3503 

B7594W 


